Isle Sur la Sorgue, France
We made it all ten days at Marie's parents without any causalities. It was close though, as I think everyone probably thought about strangulation at one point or another. Marie probably thought about strangling the most people. But that's understandable. She has her reasons. You don't move to another continent without being thoroughly fed up with the one you left. Me, I mostly thought about strangling Marie in the beginning as she reacted to every parental comment and inquisition with the defensive ardor and disgust of Joan of Arc about to be torched. But after a few days I settled into to playing the role of the deaf mute. Really, you should have seen it! I should've won an Oscar! I acted like I didn't even know what my own name was!... I just sat back and settled into the routine... Her parents are really big on routine... which makes sense why Marie hates it so much - routine... We settled into it eventually, no sense buckin' the tide... It was fine really, and mainly consisted of eating then driving somewhere, anywhere really... point was to get out... The eating part was what they took the most seriously though... coffee, bread and jam in the morning (on Saturdays and Sundays we had croissants!)... Marie's mom had it all out and ready every morning when we got up... which was a little late for their taste... around ten usually... which is early for us, but was still considered by them to be monstrously lazy... at least that's what Marie said... they just smiled at me... After that we ate at 1pm and 8pm sharp! They ate with the fanatical regularity of praying monks!... And not just any little old meal!... No way!... We ate like kings!... with a sharply regulated order, not to be deviated from ever or for any reason! We started off with bread and salad... and bread goes on the table!... not on the plate like I made the mistake of doing!... after we mopped up the bread and salad, the main course was served... lamb or duck or chicken or beef or pig!... and potatoes!... sometimes french fried, sometimes au gratin, other times fried in garlic and olive oil!... or maybe there'd be asparagus or radishes or lentils or couscous or beans!... mounds of them!... They just kept stuffin' me... It seemed to give them great pleasure to stuff me... I didn't mind... I just nodded and licked my lips and said mmmm... I'm a good sport when it comes to eating... Then there was the cheese plate with Roquefort, Gruyere, Camembert, Chevre etc.etc... and always bread! and you don't put your cheese on the table with the bread, like I found out!... After that, yogurt with sugar... and wine or beer throughout! Jesus did they think we were queer with our non-alcoholic beers! We were really puttin' a cramp in their style with that non-alcoholic shit! I think her dad even called me a pussy once! Jesus! It was rough not drinkin' there! Believe me, I wanted to drink them dry a couple times!... but I behaved... Then after the cheese and yogurt we had the coffee and chocolate! Christ it was good! Everyday was like that! No joke! Each meal as big as the next! Waves of food! We spent days at the table without anybody batting an eye!... No shit!... Then a drive or two to a castle, a picturesque little town mixed in... there's tons of castles and picturesque little towns around there... On the last day there they pulled out all the stops!... her dad was cooking giant shrimps on the bbq... Marie's Uncle, who lived right next door, then invited us over to his afternoon bbq with a group of his friends... He had tiny skewered birds that he was cooking over the fire dripped in lard... The little birds slid right off and were then eaten with bread, always bread!... whole little birds!... little fried wings, bones, skull and all! Everything but the beak! I wasn't so hot on it at first... then the uncle sucked one down, went and got a picture of his mother, Marie's grandmother, with a shotgun slung over her shoulder that she used to kill the little suckers with!... I still wasn't sure about it... Then one of the old women at the table ripped off the beak of one of those little bastards, bit into the skull, looking at me dead in the eye!... a challenge!... I sure as shit ate one after that... I ate two, three, four! as all the old men gave me the thumbs up... peer pressure's a motherfucker... I wasn't gonna be called a pussy again by some French fuckers!... Not bad either! Crunchy! Those brittle little bones go down with ease, with all that lard and bread, always bread!... And that skull!... like butter... After that we went back next door to the parents and finished off the giant googly eyed shrimps that her father had cooked, out on the patio under the sun... Surrounded by the by arid yet green rolling landscape interspersed with lavendar and streams I felt like we were in the Texas Hill Country! Not bad!... I almost cried as I thought about the grueling work that most likely lay ahead of me on the horizon... Tears filling my eyes, wondering how I could get out of the looming manual labor torture, in the vague ill formed future of mine... manual labor's no joke, man...
Love
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Isle Sur la Sorgue
Isle Sur la Sorgue, France
We arrive in Avignon - actually, Isle sur la Sorgue, a small town just outside of Avignon - just as it starts to drizzle. Marie's parent's live in a cozy terra cotta house with a cherry farm. Marie has her mom's blueness of eyes and her dad's smoldering intensity. It's raining steady and Marie wants to go into town to get her uncle a book for his birthday party tonight. Neither the car nor a ride is offered by the parents. Our inability to use the car was an issue with Marie before we even left Paris. Marie now, I feel, wants to press the issue and walk to town to prove some sort of point to her parents about their unreasonableness. She wants me to go along to punctuate her point. I'm fine working on my book I tell her. She gets me an umbrella. We're 16 again proving points to unreasonable parents walking to town in the pouring rain. Halfway there with soaked feet and pants I tell her that I'll gladly go back to Paris on the TGV - the fastest train in the world - if the next ten days will be like this. We fight. The rain comes down harder. She stomps off through the downpour and I follow along like a wet dog. An hour later we return home drenched.
That night at the birthday party we snack on an assortment of sardines and anchovies cleverly disguised as edible food as everyone wants to know why I don't drink and what I could be writing a book about at 36. I tell Marie to tell them that I used to be a stripper in New Orleans and that alcohol makes me violent. She glares at me. Then the entire party of ten or so takes a whack at saying my name as everyone laughs: CORNEEY! ROONEEY! CROONEEY! COREEEY! And Marie points to her uncles man purse and tells him that I think that only homosexuals wear them in America. HE looks me stern in the face and tells me: I AN NUT AN OMOSEXUAL! I smile and eat an anchovy disguised as a nut cluster.
LOve
We arrive in Avignon - actually, Isle sur la Sorgue, a small town just outside of Avignon - just as it starts to drizzle. Marie's parent's live in a cozy terra cotta house with a cherry farm. Marie has her mom's blueness of eyes and her dad's smoldering intensity. It's raining steady and Marie wants to go into town to get her uncle a book for his birthday party tonight. Neither the car nor a ride is offered by the parents. Our inability to use the car was an issue with Marie before we even left Paris. Marie now, I feel, wants to press the issue and walk to town to prove some sort of point to her parents about their unreasonableness. She wants me to go along to punctuate her point. I'm fine working on my book I tell her. She gets me an umbrella. We're 16 again proving points to unreasonable parents walking to town in the pouring rain. Halfway there with soaked feet and pants I tell her that I'll gladly go back to Paris on the TGV - the fastest train in the world - if the next ten days will be like this. We fight. The rain comes down harder. She stomps off through the downpour and I follow along like a wet dog. An hour later we return home drenched.
That night at the birthday party we snack on an assortment of sardines and anchovies cleverly disguised as edible food as everyone wants to know why I don't drink and what I could be writing a book about at 36. I tell Marie to tell them that I used to be a stripper in New Orleans and that alcohol makes me violent. She glares at me. Then the entire party of ten or so takes a whack at saying my name as everyone laughs: CORNEEY! ROONEEY! CROONEEY! COREEEY! And Marie points to her uncles man purse and tells him that I think that only homosexuals wear them in America. HE looks me stern in the face and tells me: I AN NUT AN OMOSEXUAL! I smile and eat an anchovy disguised as a nut cluster.
LOve
Monday, 1 March 2010
Paris
1st Arrondissement, Paris
Marie, her friend Paco, and his friend Tabby and I spent the afternoon in Monmarte visiting Sacre Coeur and an exhibition at Halle Saint-Pierre of the French artist, Chomo. Afterward we had another four hour dinner at a bistro in the Belleville neighborhood as it was Tabby's birthday. I love the fact that the French can make a day out of eating. But something went awry on the way home. Maybe it was the oysters or the snails that started the dinner off? Or maybe it was because I didn't have a digestive? Or maybe it was the crazy guy with dreadlocks screaming at me in the Metro following me down the platform as Marie yelled my name trying to keep me from doing anything stupid? Whatever is was, by the time we got home I knew that I was going be sick. And as I sat in the bathtub I started feeling not just sick to my stomach, but sick to my soul about all the writing I've been doing since we've been here, as it's all disgustingly personal and often difficult to sift through, and follows me throughout the day - even on a nice day like this one was - as I try to capture in my mind the ever elusive nature and meaning of what it is that I'm writing. And as I sat in the tub and the sickness swelled in me I suddenly felt intensely vulnerable and exposed by what I've written and I wondered what the point of it all was - putting myself 'out there' like that - and I thought about stopping the writing all together. Then my body shivered and I vomited all over myself. And I felt immensely better. And I realized then, that that was why I would keep on writing - as even though in the end I may be covered in the revolting stench of my own psychic vomit, I'll feel a whole lot better for having gotten it all out.
LOve
Marie, her friend Paco, and his friend Tabby and I spent the afternoon in Monmarte visiting Sacre Coeur and an exhibition at Halle Saint-Pierre of the French artist, Chomo. Afterward we had another four hour dinner at a bistro in the Belleville neighborhood as it was Tabby's birthday. I love the fact that the French can make a day out of eating. But something went awry on the way home. Maybe it was the oysters or the snails that started the dinner off? Or maybe it was because I didn't have a digestive? Or maybe it was the crazy guy with dreadlocks screaming at me in the Metro following me down the platform as Marie yelled my name trying to keep me from doing anything stupid? Whatever is was, by the time we got home I knew that I was going be sick. And as I sat in the bathtub I started feeling not just sick to my stomach, but sick to my soul about all the writing I've been doing since we've been here, as it's all disgustingly personal and often difficult to sift through, and follows me throughout the day - even on a nice day like this one was - as I try to capture in my mind the ever elusive nature and meaning of what it is that I'm writing. And as I sat in the tub and the sickness swelled in me I suddenly felt intensely vulnerable and exposed by what I've written and I wondered what the point of it all was - putting myself 'out there' like that - and I thought about stopping the writing all together. Then my body shivered and I vomited all over myself. And I felt immensely better. And I realized then, that that was why I would keep on writing - as even though in the end I may be covered in the revolting stench of my own psychic vomit, I'll feel a whole lot better for having gotten it all out.
LOve
Friday, 26 February 2010
Paris
1st Arrondissement, Paris
Throughout the days I hear French drifting through my consciousness - as I sit on a bench on Ponts des Arts and watch the sun set; as I walk through the crowds of people in Des Halles; as I follow Marie and her friend Paco around on Rue St. Honore as they buy meats, vegetables and breads for dinner. And I realize that I love not understanding French, as my inability to understand what people are saying has opened up a whole new world of quiet for me that I love. I'm left alone. I'm not hassled. I'm not bombarded by inane background chatter, that in the States, especially New York City, is constantly pulling on my attention as I try to navigate through the day - language as psychic assault. Here the language is a pleasant backdrop for my thoughts as opposed to an onslaught of mentally fatiguing garbage.
I'm tired of overhearing people on their phones complaining about someone at work, talking animatedly to their friend, or fighting with their boyfriend or girlfriend. I'm tired of overhearing what people want to buy or don't want to buy. I'm tired of hearing people talking about what they do and don't want. I'm tired of hearing people talking about TV and movies and actors. I'm tired of the inane chattering of people taking up my headspace.
LOve
Throughout the days I hear French drifting through my consciousness - as I sit on a bench on Ponts des Arts and watch the sun set; as I walk through the crowds of people in Des Halles; as I follow Marie and her friend Paco around on Rue St. Honore as they buy meats, vegetables and breads for dinner. And I realize that I love not understanding French, as my inability to understand what people are saying has opened up a whole new world of quiet for me that I love. I'm left alone. I'm not hassled. I'm not bombarded by inane background chatter, that in the States, especially New York City, is constantly pulling on my attention as I try to navigate through the day - language as psychic assault. Here the language is a pleasant backdrop for my thoughts as opposed to an onslaught of mentally fatiguing garbage.
I'm tired of overhearing people on their phones complaining about someone at work, talking animatedly to their friend, or fighting with their boyfriend or girlfriend. I'm tired of overhearing what people want to buy or don't want to buy. I'm tired of hearing people talking about what they do and don't want. I'm tired of hearing people talking about TV and movies and actors. I'm tired of the inane chattering of people taking up my headspace.
LOve
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Paris
1st Arrondissement, Paris
We have a neighborhood fixture here on Rue St. Honore. Every neighborhood has one – the eccentric, strange, interesting, crazy or sometimes all of the above character. I saw Rue St. Honore's fixture the first day we arrived. He swished by us down the narrow cobble stoned street in his all black outfit that hung loosely from his thin frame, black leather gloves, sunglasses in winter on his tanned and aging face, his frosted blond hair coiffed perfectly in an eternal wave. I’ve seen him almost every day since we arrived. Always wondering where’s he’s going. Each time I see him I flash briefly into picturing the rest of his life - what does he do to make a living? Where does he go on his walks? Who does he spend his time with?
Today I had a run in with him again. I saw him when I hit the street in the fading sunlight on my way to meet Marie and her friend Paco at the Musee d’Orsay. I saw him coming towards me sauntering down my side of the street with his trademark Risky Business shades and his coiffed blond hair. I sensed him trying capture my gaze and I pushed on towards Ponts des Arts, avoiding his stare, to see the gauzy sunset over the Seine.
On the way home as I stood on the corner in the dark of Rue St. Honore waiting as Marie and Paco looked into a restaurant he appeared in my periphery stopping to talk to me pulling his shades to the top of his coiffed head revealing a purple and blackened eye as he shook my hand and asking “Comment ca va?”.
“Bien” I said wanting to ask about his eye, but not having the words “Et vous?”
“Ca va, merci. Au revoir.”
“Bon soir.”
And he was off, dropping his shades back over his shiner, as Marie approached, asking me if I knew him.
“No.”
postscript: Marie's sister says that he's the fashion designer Claude Montana.
LOve
We have a neighborhood fixture here on Rue St. Honore. Every neighborhood has one – the eccentric, strange, interesting, crazy or sometimes all of the above character. I saw Rue St. Honore's fixture the first day we arrived. He swished by us down the narrow cobble stoned street in his all black outfit that hung loosely from his thin frame, black leather gloves, sunglasses in winter on his tanned and aging face, his frosted blond hair coiffed perfectly in an eternal wave. I’ve seen him almost every day since we arrived. Always wondering where’s he’s going. Each time I see him I flash briefly into picturing the rest of his life - what does he do to make a living? Where does he go on his walks? Who does he spend his time with?
Today I had a run in with him again. I saw him when I hit the street in the fading sunlight on my way to meet Marie and her friend Paco at the Musee d’Orsay. I saw him coming towards me sauntering down my side of the street with his trademark Risky Business shades and his coiffed blond hair. I sensed him trying capture my gaze and I pushed on towards Ponts des Arts, avoiding his stare, to see the gauzy sunset over the Seine.
On the way home as I stood on the corner in the dark of Rue St. Honore waiting as Marie and Paco looked into a restaurant he appeared in my periphery stopping to talk to me pulling his shades to the top of his coiffed head revealing a purple and blackened eye as he shook my hand and asking “Comment ca va?”.
“Bien” I said wanting to ask about his eye, but not having the words “Et vous?”
“Ca va, merci. Au revoir.”
“Bon soir.”
And he was off, dropping his shades back over his shiner, as Marie approached, asking me if I knew him.
“No.”
postscript: Marie's sister says that he's the fashion designer Claude Montana.
LOve
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Paris
1st Arrondissement, Paris
Visited Pere lachaise. Wandered through the stunning above ground cemetery trying to figure life out with Marie. Our conclusion: back to the drawing board. Scrap the past. Reinvent. Readjust. Follow passion and direct energy into meaningful endeavors. "I like being with you Corey" she said as we exited through the wrought iron gate back into the streets of Paris.
"I like being with you too, baby" I said as she linked her arm through mine.
Sitting at a sidewalk cafe across the street from Pere lachaise, the red eyes of the art nouveau Metro arch watch the white sphere of the sun dissolve into the watercolor blue of the sky. The 20th Arrondissement: people out in force to feel the promise of Spring air; Belville neighborhood?; people seem more down to earth than the trendy, slightly stuffy 1st Arrondissement where we are staying - no shiny puffy ski parka type jackets that have started to drive me crazy as they seem to be the must have garment for the fashionably in-crowd in Paris. Slightly strange woman at the creperie chats me up as I wait to order, thinks I'm French, invites me for a drink despite my nods glances towards Marie identifying her as my girlfriend sitting a few feet from where we stand - Spring is in the air - ah, the French.
Marie and I make plans sipping chocolat au chaud to get out and explore each day from now on.
So much too see... So little time...
LOve
Visited Pere lachaise. Wandered through the stunning above ground cemetery trying to figure life out with Marie. Our conclusion: back to the drawing board. Scrap the past. Reinvent. Readjust. Follow passion and direct energy into meaningful endeavors. "I like being with you Corey" she said as we exited through the wrought iron gate back into the streets of Paris.
"I like being with you too, baby" I said as she linked her arm through mine.
Sitting at a sidewalk cafe across the street from Pere lachaise, the red eyes of the art nouveau Metro arch watch the white sphere of the sun dissolve into the watercolor blue of the sky. The 20th Arrondissement: people out in force to feel the promise of Spring air; Belville neighborhood?; people seem more down to earth than the trendy, slightly stuffy 1st Arrondissement where we are staying - no shiny puffy ski parka type jackets that have started to drive me crazy as they seem to be the must have garment for the fashionably in-crowd in Paris. Slightly strange woman at the creperie chats me up as I wait to order, thinks I'm French, invites me for a drink despite my nods glances towards Marie identifying her as my girlfriend sitting a few feet from where we stand - Spring is in the air - ah, the French.
Marie and I make plans sipping chocolat au chaud to get out and explore each day from now on.
So much too see... So little time...
LOve
Paris
1st Arrondissement, Paris
The weather is breaking towards warmer here in the 1st Arrondissement of Paris on the banks of the Seine. It looks like we might be able to get out and explore. The cold that preceded has kept my toes feeling like icicles which has made exploration difficult. Later today: Pere Lachaise cemetery to remind ourselves that we too will come to an end. We'd better get this shit together. This is the one shot - life. And to think that I've been driveling it away working chronic fatigue inducing jobs! JESUS! There's got to be a better way... But it doesn't look like time is on my side or that it's going to be kind... Looks like it's gonna be a dogfight from here on out. Upgrade skill sets. Follow passion. Struggle. Suffer. Suffer. That's okay, my mind is sharp and my body is still intact... Plus, I'm a biter! The days here are filled with reading and writing - all I really give a shit about anymore. But it doesn't look like this misty Paris dream is gonna last forever. Work looms menacingly ominous on the horizon like a plague as Marie asks me again and again in her little sing song voice, "are we going to have a nice life together Corey?".
"That's the plan baby" I tell her. And I try to picture it... A nice little life... This is it... Whatever it is... It's all We've got...
LOve
The weather is breaking towards warmer here in the 1st Arrondissement of Paris on the banks of the Seine. It looks like we might be able to get out and explore. The cold that preceded has kept my toes feeling like icicles which has made exploration difficult. Later today: Pere Lachaise cemetery to remind ourselves that we too will come to an end. We'd better get this shit together. This is the one shot - life. And to think that I've been driveling it away working chronic fatigue inducing jobs! JESUS! There's got to be a better way... But it doesn't look like time is on my side or that it's going to be kind... Looks like it's gonna be a dogfight from here on out. Upgrade skill sets. Follow passion. Struggle. Suffer. Suffer. That's okay, my mind is sharp and my body is still intact... Plus, I'm a biter! The days here are filled with reading and writing - all I really give a shit about anymore. But it doesn't look like this misty Paris dream is gonna last forever. Work looms menacingly ominous on the horizon like a plague as Marie asks me again and again in her little sing song voice, "are we going to have a nice life together Corey?".
"That's the plan baby" I tell her. And I try to picture it... A nice little life... This is it... Whatever it is... It's all We've got...
LOve
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